


Six Months Off For Bad Behavior

by churchonthehill



Category: It's Always Sunny in Philadelphia
Genre: M/M, THOUGH a lot of drug talk / parallels, but at then that i'd say it's pretty tame???, mention of masterbation towards the end
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-30
Updated: 2019-01-30
Packaged: 2019-10-19 06:55:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 976
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17596568
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/churchonthehill/pseuds/churchonthehill
Summary: I wrote this at 12 am and it's very short and I'm very tired.





	Six Months Off For Bad Behavior

Dennis. Dennis. Dennis. Dennis. Dennis.

A name. Repeat it enough times and it may just make a pretty damn good lullaby. Say it three times in front of a mirror ( Dennis, Dennis, Dennis ) , spin around once, and make sure you have an odorless candle settled on each corner of the bathtub. When you speak their name, keep an image in mind. If you think of the wrong person, well, you’re gonna end up one disappointed bastard. Acting like a real bonehead. Though, legend has it, that if Aphrodite’s feeling merciful, she’ll grant you one night of pleasure with the fixation of your passion. Their conscious image, their nome, it’s all objective. Whether they arrive to you as flesh and bone, or a wispy spirit from the conjured realm of motel mirrors, they’re fuckable. They’re there, and still very much ripe with sexual potential. 

Only, everyone and their mom knows the Bloody Mary is just another urban hoax. Kinda like sex. And most definitely like sex, with someone you crave more than the high of synthetic steroids or crack cocaine. Because, one way or another, you’re gonna find someone to deal you the stimulants, the depressants, the sloppy witching-hour handies. But no matter the sum of money you’re able to muster-up, good-looks, and charm. If someone doesn’t wanna fuck you after all that. Well. Then, they really don’t wanna fuck you. Though, if you’re dealing with a real fruitcake, you may just be able to coax them into taking their pants off with the prospect of being an organ donor to the Chinese black market. 

Unfortunately, there are no how-to-manuals written on Dennis Reynolds. And there aren’t any self-help books either, that tell you how to cope or manage an addiction for Dennis Reynolds. If it were that easy, if there was a multitude of literature made on this devious, cynical, sociopathic, piece of cow dung, that shone dubiously bright under the right lighting, then just maybe, there wouldn’t be a crisis here in America today.

Plus, it’s difficult to quit cold-turkey when you’ve got immediate access to a fix. Sometimes, the fix also happens to be your co-worker, your roommate, your best friend: all rolled into one incorrigible human. Denmorphine Hydreynolds. Molecular Formula: one sexy, inhuman, asshole. Molecular Weight: 135-starving-Ibs of vampirism. 

But, the thrill- my god- the thrill of the high. The divine, incomparable veil of hubris that blinds you. The bitter-sweet notion of elevation, as you float high above the ground, feeling enlightened beyond the Greeks. It’s a state known only to addicts and junkies. To the authentically au courant peoples of this world. To those who have loved Dennis Reynolds.

It’s hard,even,to define what’s so alluring about him, so exceptionally habit-forming. It’s his nature, really. Simple as that.

Sometimes, when he gets lost in his work - really concentrates on getting the zeros down for the sum-total of a written bill, his signature loopy and the letters distant ( it makes you wanna fill the spaces inbetween ) the pink tip of his tongue will prod past equally pink lips. The sight alone sends you weak at the knees. How such a simple, chaste, expression, can force man to cream the front of his pants like a virgin, is just one of the many fine things about Dennis Reynolds that defies logic. Many, though, not limited to just lips and things inbetween. Sometimes, he’ll wear the tightest pair of blue jeans he owns, and you swear, they’ve ought to be two-sizes too small. But somehow, somehow he makes it work. The jeans did not come first, Dennis did. The jeans were born to serve him, to fit him like a glove.All things behind store windows were permissive to him. The moment he set his eye on fabric, it was doomed to align to the various curves and points of his svelte frame.

And then, wearing those unbiased blue jeans, he will bend over the counter. The tail-end of his flannel rumpled, so that when he stretches his arm over the counter for a refill, his shirt will ride up, revealing a rectangle of alabaster flesh and the two connecting strings of a thong, descending into an abyss past the waistband of his pants. 

He does this all knowingly. Willingly.

There are days where he will repeat this slow-torture, only, with just the two of you in the room. Bend over the kitchen sink, his bed, the couch, the dining room table, each time revealing that same rectangle of alabaster flesh and the two connecting strings of a thong, descending into an abyss past the waistband of his pants. 

How you wish you were brave enough to put your foot down, to hold him by the scruff his neck and revel in the sight of what the abyss longed to reveal. You want to spread him apart and open, build a chamber between his legs and make him ache for you as you do for him. You want to fuck him, you want him to fuck you - 

Dennis. Dennis. Dennis. Dennis. Dennis. Dennis. Dennis. Dennis. Dennis. Dennis. Dennis -

The illusion has to end somewhere, though. Eventually, the high wears down and the lines in your palms grow indented with spunk. Ghost load cakes the inside of your downy thighs, your travel-sized bible, your trusty childhood crucifix. 

Though, you can taste the finish line in the horizon. You’re starting off small. You’re using, but you’re using once a week. You’re using twice a week. You’re using three times a week. You’re using every day. And that’s what sucks about drugs, you think. Once you’ve grown tolerant, you’re gonna need a bigger dose. Bigger and bigger and bigger. Is there even a limit to how big one can go? 

Dennis calls your name from down the hall, something about taxes. 

You realize you might die soon.


End file.
